“You saw it,” he said, quietly, so as not to wake Connelly.
Bishop took a moment to acknowledge that he’d heard him. Finally he tilted the magazine away, and sighed. “Saw what,” he said.
“You know what.”
Bishop shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Something was there.”
Bishop said nothing. He lifted the magazine again, but his eyes were still.
“Something was down there,” Garner said.
“No there wasn’t.”
“It pulled Atka. I know you saw it.”
Bishop refused to look at him. “This is an empty place,” he said, after a long silence. “There’s nothing here.” He blinked, and turned a page in the magazine. “Nothing.”
Garner leaned back onto his cot, looking at the ceiling.
Although the long Antarctic day had not yet finished, it was shading into dusk, the sun hovering over the horizon like a great boiling eye. It cast long shadows, and the lamp Bishop had lit to read by set them dancing. Garner watched them caper across the ceiling. Some time later, Bishop snuffed out the lamp and dragged the curtains over the windows, consigning them all to darkness. With it, Garner felt something like peace stir inside him. He let it move through him in waves, he felt it ebb and flow with each slow pulse of his heart.
A gust of wind scattered fine crystals of snow against the window, and he found himself wondering what the night would be like in this cold country. He imagined the sky dissolving to reveal the hard vault of stars, the galaxy turning above him like a cog in a vast, unknowable engine. And behind it all, the emptiness into which men hurled their prayers. It occurred to him that he could leave now, walk out into the long twilight and keep going until the earth opened beneath him and he found himself descending strange stairs, while the world around him broke silently into snow, and into night.
Garner closed his eyes.
Editor's note: I rarely publish reprints, but in the case of The Crevasse, I could not resist; it is one of my favorite Lovecraftian stories, first published in the excellent Lovecraft Unbound. And if you enjoyed this story, you'll want to purchase Nathan's brand new anthology North American Lake Monsters.
Dale Bailey lives in North Carolina with has family, and has published three novels, The Fallen, House of Bones, and Sleeping Policemen (with Jack Slay, Jr.). His short fiction, collected in The Resurrection Man’s Legacy and Other Stories, has won the International Horror Guild Award and has twice been a finalist for the Nebula Award. You can find him online at http://www.dalebailey.com.
Nathan Ballingrud is the author of North American Lake Monsters, from Small Beer Press. Several of his stories have been reprinted in Year’s Best anthologies, and “The Monsters of Heaven” won a Shirley Jackson Award. He’s worked as a bartender in New Orleans, a cook on oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico, and a waiter in a fancy restaurant. Currently he lives in Asheville, NC, with his daughter, where he’s at work on his first novel. You can find him online at nathanballingrud.wordpress.com.
Story illustration by Peter Szmer
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Cement Shoe Cthulhu
by Derek Ferreira
In everything, it’s as much who you know as what you know. Contacts, networking, social media, it’s all built around the same concept: getting you out there, spreading your web, your message and your personal creed to as many people as you can. Nowadays, it’s as easy as clicking a button; but I remember the hard work and time that people used to put into building their stable of informants, working off of a very old concept. You scratch my back, I scratch yours, as the saying goes. I pride myself on my keen understanding of man’s oldest currency: the economy of favors, one good turn after another and another and another.
Providence might not be my hometown, but it’s grown on me. It’s a city on the edge, driven right to the brink by greed, nepotism and corruption. It’s exactly the kind of environment that caters to a man like me. No, Providence isn’t my home, but as I take the turn down a familiar, claustrophobic, cobbled road towards Tcho-Tcho’s bar, I realize how comfortable it and I have become together. If I had to, I could find this little hole-in-the-wall blindfolded. In the past few years Tcho-Tcho’s had become quite the popular spot with the disenfranchised college crowd. Cheap drinks, dark corners, no cover and a damn fine house band brought them in in droves. The food’s not bad either, for a grease pit, just do yourself a favor if you ever visit, stay away from the bak bon dzhow. Sure, it’s the house specialty and it brings gourmands in from around the country. Man Vs. Food has even been in contact with Tcho, the bar’s owner and namesake, about filming an episode. Still, my advice? Stick with a burger and fries.
“Mister Moss! It’s good to see you again, sir!” The doorman called out to me as I waited for a car to pass down the one-way road before crossing the street.
“Chilly, how’ve you been?” we shook hands.
“Another day in paradise, Mister Moss.”
“Aren’t they all? How’s the family?” I asked.
The tall, broad, dark-skinned man offered a bright smile. “Growing, sir.”
“Congratulations, Chilly. We should get together sometime, Sarah and you both, if you can find a babysitter, that is.” I clapped him on the shoulder as he opened the door for me.
“Sure, I’d like that Mister Moss. Enjoy the evening, sir.”
I wished this visit was about enjoyment, I really did. It was a different world inside. The music that had been muted was pounding at my very center. The band was up on stage, Kraken and the Mob, a very talented, very devoted group of ladies that I’m proud to say I had a hand in setting up here. I made my way through the throng of writhing flesh and over to the bar. The kid behind the counter was new, but attentive.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
“Rum, straight, on the rocks. Tcho in?”
“Maybe,” the bartender added defensively as he scooped ice into a glass. “Who’s asking?”
I raised my brows and felt the corners of my lips curl upwards. Before I could answer, Mandy, the waitress and sometimes bar-top dancer leaned in next to me and shouted to the kid.
“Zack! This guy doesn’t pay! Okay? He’s the one we told you about!” she cupped her hands in front of her mouth and I got a chance to take in his reaction. He over-poured the rum, so that rivulets of the golden liquid ran down the sides of the glass, his eyes darting between Mandy and me. For my part, I tilted the bottle upright with an extended finger. “Sorry, Moss! He didn’t know!”
“It’s alright.” I waved my hand dismissively. “Thank you, dear. Now, where is Tcho?”
“In his office!” Mandy shouted over an up-tempo shift of guitar. I savored the familiar opening riff to my favorite Kraken song, Cement Shoe Cthulhu. There was power in that song, seductive, sweet and awful. A few scattered rounds of applause were offered to the band as they began to sing; like sirens, they were doing exactly as they should; temptation was their vocation. I stared at Karen, the lead singer and primary reason for my visit. She was a tall, willowy girl, with wild hair the color of a neon rainbow. I had often wondered how many bottles it took to get it to look like that. Tonight she was dressed especially provocatively, a mesh shirt wrapping tightly about her taught frame. Electrical tape provided what little modesty there was to be found, hiding her nipples under a shining X the color of an oil slick. Torn hose and a ragged jean skirt held together by safety pins completed the ‘rock star’ look. Her eyes, one blue and one green, met mine and brightened with recognition. Her fingerless gloved hands wrapped around the microphone and I watched her redouble her efforts as she sang to me. She was a lovely girl, Karen, always so eager to please. She had no idea the kind of trouble she had gotten herself into. She had no idea what a mess she had laid at my doorstep. And yet, I could not be irritated with her, for none were as devoted to our cause as she was. It was she that had brought a vital influx of n
ew blood into the fold. Music as a recruitment tool. I admit, I was skeptical at first, but these are interesting times. Children flock to popular musicians, clamoring over themselves to adopt their stances on social, political and yes, even religious issues. The minstrel has become miles more influential than the bishop.
I finished my drink as Mandy picked up an order on a circular metal tray and wove her way deftly through the crowd. I set the empty glass down onto the counter top with a rattle of ice.
“Zach?” I asked of the man working the counter.
“Yes?” he replied so softly that I had to read his lips to realize that he’d said anything at all.
“We’ll talk. Soon.”
“O-okay.”
I made my way from the bar and towards the back office. My eyes scanned the crowd as the song continued, Karen’s English fading into something far older and far more terrible. I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of pride well up in my breast as she pronounced each syllable perfectly.
And then I saw him.
He was as transfixed as the others in the bar, an older man sitting by himself at a table in the corner. This man had been sent for her: dark hair, thinning in the front, a thick gold chain hanging on a hirsute chest with a crucifix resting amidst the curly tangles and eyes that never left Karen. They held only disdain and the nervous excitement of a man reveling in the moments before sin. My sources were right. The Frezzetti family had taken issue with my protege over the disappearance of one Paul “Pauly” Frezzetti, only son of family patriarch Caesar Frezzetti. Caesar was the kingpin of a crime syndicate left over from the heyday of prohibition, that operated out of Federal Hill, a slice of Sicily right in the middle of Providence. They specialized in the usual: prostitution, drugs, gambling and the trafficking of arms. They also wielded considerable clout in their own small microcosm; Frezzetti influence had made forging inroads into the Federal Hill neighborhood difficult. One of my potential converts was once found tied to a tree, after having committed suicide by shooting himself in the back five times. No doubt Caesar Frezzetti was sending a message, both to me and anyone else that might have considered changing loyalties.
Caesar wasn’t a man I was prepared to face, just yet. But I no longer had a choice, it was either confront him or lose Karen.
I pushed my way through the ‘staff only’ designated heavy metal door and into Tcho’s immaculately tended office area. Tcho was a bit of a neat freak, he had a mind for minutiae and an even sharper one for business. He was also more than a little paranoid. A fact I was reminded of as the three armed gorillas reached for weapons beneath matching black suit jackets. Tcho’s personal secret service, they’d even look the part if the American President required steroid use.
“Ah! Dagon Moss? So soon after your last visit?” Tcho called to me from his perch behind the massive black-marble desk that was the centerpiece of his office. He was dark skinned, muscular with a pot belly that stretched along a charcoal-colored suit that was tailored to his short stature. His aphotic eyes stared at me from an angled setting that asserted his Tibetan heritage. Tcho’s crooked teeth flashed bright and sharp as his stubby fingers played over his long, wispy mustache. “We’ll have to stop meeting like this, people will say that we are in love!”
“Tcho,” I offered in greeting. “I see you hired a new security team. Again.” I looked over at each of the men taking a bead on me with semi-automatic pistols. They held them like toys in their meaty fists.
“The old ones had heard too much talk. They knew better than to draw a gun on you, Dagon. See? An ignorant man is a dangerous man. He is like a dog that is too stupid to know it should not bite a dragon.” Tcho wheezed out a sickly giggle.
“Get the guns out of my face, Tcho.”
“Oh. Fine, Dagon, fine. If only to spare your nice new suit. Put those things away!” Tcho commanded before leaning back in his plush office chair. His dogs did what he said. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure? It’s too soon for you to take your cut of the profits, partner.”
“I’m not here for money,” I said, walking over to the desk. “Karen. Was she involved in an incident over the weekend?”
“Kraken?” he corrected me as he ran his fingers along his mustache thoughtfully. “Mm. Oh, yes. There was a small issue, but nothing I couldn’t handle, Dagon.”
“She killed Pauly Frezzetti, Tcho!” I snarled and slammed my hand onto the hard stone of the desk. Tcho sat up a bit straighter in his seat, his eyes widening.
“It was an accident! And besides, no one knows about that.” He matched my tone.
“I know about it.”
“You know about everything, Moss! If only I was rich enough to gossip all day like a fishwife!”
“Enough! Never presume to know how I spend my time!” I hissed and felt my skin crawling like it wanted to tear free. I closed my eyes and tried to reign in the call. “There…is a man, sitting in the restaurant, the Frezzetti family sent him.”
“Alright…alright, Dagon, please. We can handle this. After all, he is only one man.” Tcho offered a sinister smile and looked over to his dogs. “Go with Dagon, escort the man into the kitchen. I’ll get my knives.” His eyes gleamed.
“And then what, Tcho? How long do you think you’ll have a business if you declare war on the Frezzetti’s?” I shook my head. “No, I’m going to take care of this my way. You want to help? Give me Pauly’s body, so I can take it back to Caesar for a proper burial.”
“There’s…a small problem with your plan, Dagon. I no longer have the body, exactly.”
“Tcho, you didn’t.”
“Getting rid of bodies is like, murderer 101…I thought you would have wanted me to help Kraken…and I never could resist Italian.” Tcho ran his tongue over his lips as a shiver rolled through his body.
“You stupid bastard, you ate Pauly Frezzetti!?” I loomed over the desk and Tcho’s goons got nervous. I saw them moving in on the periphery of my vision.
“Others helped–some without their knowledge–but really all I knew about mister-spray-tan was that he was delicious. I had no idea Pauly was so…connected.” Tcho held up a hand to stop his men. “Let me get you a drink, Dagon, come on, it’s no good to get so stressed out. What are you drinking tonight?”
“Heavily.” I muttered.
“Okay, okay. Get this man a drink…go on.” One of the three stooges moved quickly over to the cabinet that held Tcho’s private reserves. “What can Tcho do for you tonight, partner? I am here to help.”
“Get Kar–Kraken in here. I’m cutting her show short.”
“Sure, Dagon. You’re the boss.” Tcho nodded. “Fetch the girl.” He ordered the goon closest to the door. As he left, the last few lilting chords of Cement Shoe Cthulhu drifted hauntingly through Tcho’s office like a wandering specter, lost again when the door fell shut. A potent, but sweet smelling drink was set in front of me. The cup looked ancient, made of stone with strange, time-worn carvings etched on the outside. I lifted it to my lips and hoped that the contents would smother the embers of a migraine that would have made a long night much longer.
The door opened after a few moments of alcohol assisted silence and I heard her voice, that defiant tone that had drawn me to her in the first place.
“Tcho! You can’t just pull me off stage like that! I wasn’t finished. Dagon’s back and wait until he hears about…” Her voice trailed off. Karen’s eyes had found their way over to where I was sitting. We’d been apart for some time. It was the nature of my work; I couldn’t afford the luxury of remaining in one place. My mission was far more important than any desires that Karen or I may have shared.
“Karen.” I said, my voice barely rising above a whisper.
“Dagon…I saw you out there,” she smiled brightly. Karen moved towards me quickly, as if to hug me, but her steps withered as her eyes found mine. “What’s wrong?”
“Dagon is taking issue with that little misunderstanding we had over the weekend.” Tcho interrupted.
“A moment, Tcho.” I muttered.
“Of course, Dagon.” Tcho leaned forward on his marble desk expectantly.
“I meant, a moment alone. With Karen.”
“Oh. Right, anything you need.” Tcho nodded and pushed himself away from his desk. The chair added a few inches and he looked even shorter as he walked towards the door, summoning his men with him with a wave of his hand. “Let’s go, gentleman. Give these two some space.”
When they had gone, Karen wrapped her long, thin arms around me and pulled herself against my body. After a moment, my arms moved to slide around her waist. She always felt like she belonged against me, like two pieces of a puzzle that fit perfectly, everything made more sense when we were together than when we were apart.
“Most people call me Kraken now.” she whispered.
“I’m not most people.” I shifted back, breaking our embrace. “Tell me what happened.”
She rolled her eyes and moved past me, over to Tcho’s desk. She avoided my gaze as she leaned against the dark marble.
“I didn’t mean to kill him,” she sounded annoyed. “I didn’t, that just happened.”
“Details.”
“He was just some pushy jerk, you know? At first, he said he was a fan of the music, but then he started to come onto me and he wouldn’t take a hint. I tried to be subtle and then I was blunt. I had him escorted out by security after he tried to put his hands on me during the show.” Karen sighed. “I thought that was it. But he was waiting for me outside in the alley outback after we closed,” she looked over her shoulder through the rainbow of her bangs. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”
“What happened next?” I prodded.
Lovecraft Ezine Mega-Issue 3 Rev3 Page 44
